Standard Procedure
by DasMervin
Summary: It was all just standard procedure now. A 2014 Dean/Cas fic.


**TITLE:** Standard Procedure

**PAIRING:** 2014 Dean/Cas

**WARNINGS:** Mentions of rape and violence; dubcon; abuse; slash; infidelity; language.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, this popped into my head and is depressing. I've never written 2014 Dean/Cas before. I've read some, but never written it. I hope it doesn't show too much.

**DISCLAIMER: "Supernatural" is the property of Kripke Enterprises and Warner Bros. Television. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from this work.**

* * *

Dean could tell Cas had been at it awhile already when he slipped between the gently clacking beads hanging in his doorway. He could smell it—and he hated it. The smell just made his day even worse, really—made his nose itch and reminded him too much of the first time.

He knew Cas wouldn't have any women with him—he'd stopped halfway-hoping for that long ago, along with denying that Cas would always _know_ when he was going to come to him after raids like this. Didn't matter that he himself didn't know why he did this—it made no sense, and he hated it and hated himself for it.

He hated that he wasn't denying what would happen anymore, either.

Dean had to pass through the large room Cas would use for his fuck-parties to get to where he was going—and while he didn't have any women, Dean could tell he'd _had_ some. The room reeked—not even the incense Cas would burn during those things could mask the stink of stale sweat and sex—and those stains on the rumpled make-shift bed were unmistakable. And looked tacky in the guttering light from the lamp that Cas had left burning. _Fucking nasty._

He got out of there as quickly as possible, heading towards the small room in the back—the one Cas had only allowed Dean to see.

Cas didn't sleep where he fucked (usually). He slept in that little room on a battered mattress. It was also where he kept his stash, and where he kept anything personal that he attached significance to. Dean had never bothered looking through what he had or asking about it—he didn't care enough to, and even if he had, he didn't have the luxury of shooting the breeze about the empty key chains Cas collected or the jar of feathers he kept in the corner.

'Sides, what bugged him the most about the room were the walls.

The door was open a crack, and Dean didn't hesitate to push it slowly open. The light from where he was standing spilled inside, and Dean's gut clenched a little with that dull, impotent anger he always felt when he saw Cas like this. He was half-clothed, just in his jeans, and Dean waved a hand against the smoke that came drifting out. Cas had a thing about just sitting in his reefer clouds. Cas didn't open his eyes, but Dean saw one corner of his mouth curl upwards—that made him mad, too.

"I heard," was Cas's low, rough, but almost dazed greeting.

"So what?" Dean said sharply. "I knew you would."

"Wade told me," Cas continued. "Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Like I said."

"Fuck you," Dean said bluntly.

Cas's eyes finally opened halfway, blue and bleary and dull—but amused all the same. "Really, Dean?"

Dean clenched his jaw and stepped into the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him. The darkness swallowed them both again, save for the dim light of the moon shining feebly through the small, dirty window. He could just see Cas's outline there on the mattress.

"I don't find this fair," Cas suddenly huffed, flopping around a bit as he struggled to sit up. "I'm the one who advised you not to go on that particular raid, you did it anyway, and now you come in here to—well." Cas looked up at him; Dean could tell from the way the light reflected off of his eyes. "But nothing is fair, is it?" Cas mused thoughtfully.

"No," Dean growled in response. "None of it is. It's not fair that my brother's the Devil's suit, it's not fair that the world's ending, it's not fair that Gene died out there today 'cause of me, and it's not fair that I'm—" He swallowed hard, falling back against the wall. "—that I'm in here."

"Not fair to you, or to me?"

Dean refused to answer, instead crossing his arms and staring resolutely out the dingy window.

There was silence for a moment more, but then Dean heard rustling as Cas moved. The wooden floor creaked, and Dean's hands clenched into fists when he felt one of Cas's hands on his thigh, his thumb stroking up the inside.

"I don't think it's fair to either of us."

Cas was right. It wasn't.

But it was going to happen anyway.

Dean still didn't know how this had even _started_. The world had well and truly started falling apart once Sam had—once Lucifer had won. Bobby'd just been killed. Dean'd just had his first taste of true hopelessness. He'd gotten used to it, but back in the early days, he hadn't coped well. He'd done a good job not showing it with the desperate people who'd looked to him for protection and guidance, but he hadn't with Cas. Cas had seen his downward spiral. And because he had, Dean had _needed_ him to be there for him because he _knew_—he was the only one left who truly knew. He desperately needed Cas to prop him up when he started to fall.

And he hadn't.

First it'd been booze—always taking way more than a couple of drinks with Dean to the point that Dean finally stopped drinkin' with him. Then the sex followed—all started with just some young girl who wasn't even nineteen taking a shine to him and looking for a little comfort in the End Times and that had been that. Dean supposed it wasn't surprising that he went for drugs soon after, but that'd been it for Dean. The dam had finally broke and he'd lost it that first night he'd discovered Cas strung out and babbling about how he could almost feel Heaven again. Dean had been drunk himself, as he always was on the anniversary of when he had Sam had parted ways, and so screaming at Cas had turned into hitting Cas, and then hitting Cas had turned into…something else. Something wrong and horrible.

It'd turned into _this_.

Dean couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand how he kept coming back—the fact that _this habit_ had somehow sprung out of that night was just fucking _sick_.

Dean doubted Cas saw it that way. Shit—Cas didn't even seem to realize that he should feel dirty and used after what'd happened that night. After what happened _every_ night Dean came in here.

"You could always just ask, you know."

Cas's voice jolted him back to reality, and he almost looked down—but he kept himself still and kept himself silent as Cas's fingers fumbled around with Dean's belt.

"You could. You don't have to do this every time. Just ask—_I'd_ say yes."

Dean nearly hit him. "You just—just shut the fuck up," he snarled at the window, even as he lifted his hips up a bit to let Cas tug down his pants and his shorts.

"Not the point, Dean. You could _ask_, and I _would_."

He wouldn't ask. That felt like surrender. Giving up. Some kind of acknowledgement that on some level, he did want this—because he _didn't_. Not with Cas, not with _any_ guy. He didn't _want_ guys. He didn't want _Cas_.

Dean tensed so he wouldn't shudder and squeezed his eyes shut, biting the inside of his cheek when Cas did what he always did—obediently slid Dean's soft cock in his mouth and began to suck.

Dean always kept his eyes shut at first—mostly so he could get hard. He needed to be away from here to get it up—needed to be back in a comfortable bed for once with a woman who wasn't war-torn and scarred, so he would think of better days when the girls were young and carefree and innocent and it was all for a good time, not clinging comfort and end-of-the-world fucking. It didn't help that Cas had no technique—they didn't do this enough for him to get skilled, and he never put in much effort anyway. Not that it mattered—Dean didn't come in here for it to feel good. He came in here for _release_. That's what he wanted.

It didn't take too long to get him hard—not these days. Dean grunted softly when Cas started moving—just back and forth. Not even attempting to deep-throat. It was just mechanical. Back and forth. Constant sucking. Occasional half-hearted efforts to get his tongue more involved. Dean probably could've paid a ten-dollar whore for better head back in the day. Didn't matter. _Not here for pleasure_, he reminded himself.

Dean had already uncrossed his arms, and his fingernails scraped against the wood of the wall even as he felt Cas's teeth scrape against his dick—not too much that time, so it was a good day there at least, Dean supposed. But at the same time, it was a bad day, because that meant he'd done it enough times to know to take care to watch that. _Fuck._

Dean thumped his head a little against the wall when Cas _hmmed_ around his cock—he didn't know if it was intentional or not, but either way, it had the same affect. Dean concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, keeping it all in time with Cas's motions below, following the routine. This same _fucking_ routine. Bad raid, bad news delivered, bad whiskey, bad blowjob.

Just _bad_.

Dean's steady exhale turned into an abrupt gust of air and a choked _guh_ when Cas suddenly sucked hard, his tongue swiping right at the end as he pulled back, and Dean's eyes snapped open, his jaw going slack. His face wasn't turned towards the window now, and he'd had his eyes closed for so long, his vision had adjusted to what little light there was and he could see them—see the _walls_.

The walls—_the fucking walls._

Every inch of available space on the walls was covered in it. If anybody else had ever been allowed in here, the only person who would've been able to tell what the writing was would probably be Chuck, but only Dean was allowed in here, so only he knew—only _he_ saw the hundreds, thousands, maybe _millions_ of letters. _Enochian_ letters, scribbled from one corner to the other, even curling onto the ceiling. Cas refused to tell what he'd written, but Dean wasn't stupid—he knew. They were _prayers_—he had heard Cas choking out Enochian pleas that turned into desperate, pathetic sobbing more than once in the early days. Prayers to a Heaven that wasn't there anymore.

And the handprints—there were handprints on the walls, too, covering up some of the writing. It was never just one hand, it was always both of them—pressed together the way most kids gave themselves or their friends antlers behind their heads. But Cas hadn't been making antlers when he'd plunged his hands into the white paint he'd found and refused to leave behind three years ago. No, Dean knew what he'd been making. He would've known even if Cas hadn't slurred out the explanation to him.

The walls were what did it every time. Every single time—he saw the _walls_, saw the desperation written there, saw what lay beneath Cas's stoned exterior, saw traces of the Heaven and the God that had abandoned them, and it was over for him.

"_Fuck_," Dean snarled, and he could feel Cas stilling because he knew what was coming—he went slack, _passive_, and Dean's hands were both fisted in Cas's hair and he was moving, thrusting hard, and looking down at the useless, burned out angel on his knees before him. Cas's eyes were open, but he wasn't looking up—he rarely did. Dean could see his hands hanging loosely against his thighs, his curled fingers bumping each other, and the way he was limply taking it made Dean even more furious—just like it always did.

"You son of a bitch—you _son of a_—" Dean panted, but he lost the rest of it when Cas just started sucking again, his tongue moving, managing despite the fact that Dean was fucking his mouth hard and unrelenting, and he yanked on his hair and went faster, harder—he wanted Cas to _move_, to try and make him _stop_, to _fight_ him, to do _something—to do fucking anything!_

But he didn't. Because he never did. Not when Dean hissed out expletives and insults at him, calling him a piece of shit and useless and a cocksucker and a failure. Not when Dean pulled out long enough to slap him in the face before shoving his prick right back in Cas's mouth and fucked harder. Not even when Dean pulled back and then slammed home, making Cas shiver as he choked and gagged on Dean's prick and jizz when Dean came down his throat with a strangled, muffled groan that was almost a sob.

Dean quickly pulled Cas off of his cock when he was done, hissing and shivering as he did, and all but threw him away from him. He was already feeling sick, as usual, because this _was_ fucking sick. Cas, on the other hand, just coughed and spat on the floor. Dean grimaced and turned away, tugging his pants back up and fumbling them closed again.

"I hate this." Dean blurted it out before he could stop himself, and, unable to help it, he glanced down at Cas.

Cas was staring back, his eyes half-lidded, and Dean could see shiny trails of spit on his lips and chin and even a bit that had dripped down on his chest. "So do I," Cas replied flatly.

Dean's heart thudded and his stomach clenched a little; he hadn't been expecting that response. "So why do you do it?" Dean demanded.

"I don't _do_," Cas threw back at him. "I _let_. I _allow_."

"That's the point," Dean spat. "Why do you _allow_ me to do this shit to you? Why don't you ever say no or try to stop me? Why don't you fucking do _anything_?"

Cas didn't move the whole time Dean ranted at him, nor did his expression change. "Because it's Armageddon," Cas said simply, "and we must all do our part to serve what's left of the whole as best we can." Cas still didn't bother wiping his face, instead settling back onto his ratty mattress and groping for his little box that contained his joints and other paraphernalia; Dean could see the dark spots on the fingers of his right hand where he would sometimes let his blunts burn too close to his skin when he was in a stupor. After he fished out a fresh joint and one of his rattling bottles, he looked back up at Dean, skewering him with a look. "I _serve_ the Fearless Leader. Let him take it out on me so he won't take it out on the people that matter."

There was silence as Dean just stared, that dull and impotent rage and hatred of everything—Cas, humanity, Sam, and himself most of all—already simmering again deep in his gut, that burn that never went away. Cas wasn't paying him any attention; Dean never could hold him for long when he was aiming for his high. He swallowed three pills first before lighting up, sucking hard on the end of his joint and then exhaling long and slow, smoke curling from his mouth and making him look like a sleepy, wasted dragon. His eyes drifted shut. "I told you—I'm not a hammer," Cas murmured, already starting to slur and drift again. "I am…a cog. In a broken machine. I always was, always am, always ever shall be."

Dean'd had enough. He turned away, straightening his clothes as he opened the door and stepped out of the room. He shut the door behind him so Cas could sit in his smoke hole like he always did when he got high.

He didn't leave right away; instead, he stood by the still-burning lamp and checked his clothes for any signs that he and Cas had done anything but talk. Nobody in the compound knew what he and Cas did on nights like these, and Dean intended to keep it that way—_especially_ where Risa was concerned. He self-consciously glanced around even though it wasn't necessary and undid his pants again, looking down at his junk. Just to be on the safe side, he grabbed a pair of panties that didn't look too dirty that were draped haphazardly on a table nearby and wiped himself completely clean. Then he zipped up again and sighed, closing his eyes and silently counting to ten.

It was done and over. The misery and anger were still there, but they weren't white-hot and explosive anymore. They were as they should be—something he could shove deep inside and control. And now he'd go back to his shack and see Risa, they might bitch at each other a little over what'd gone down, and then they'd fuck—but he wouldn't take it out on her. He wouldn't pull her hair, he wouldn't snarl at her, he wouldn't throw her down and shove her face into a pillow and scream that he hated her, hated what she'd become. It didn't matter that she probably wouldn't let him do it like _he_ had—what mattered is that he wouldn't try it or even _think_ about it. And she'd be happier when they were done because she'd think she'd managed to help sleep a little of Fearless Leader's troubles away.

Dean did not try to reassure himself that maybe he wouldn't need this next time.

It'd happen again. Dean knew it would—he wasn't in denial anymore that this time would be the _last_ time he went slinking into Cas's hut. This was what his life was—it was all standard procedure now.

Dean blew out the flame of the lamp.


End file.
